


Where We Meet

by Squidink



Category: Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Captain Metropolis moonlights as Captain Axis, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Minutemen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-16
Updated: 2009-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's what you do, for the people you love.  You give to them.  Give in to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where We Meet

Nelson must always tread carefully in such places; it simply would never do for his teammates to see him in such a state, so obvious with his skulking slump and furtive glance.  The warehouse is empty, far out on the outskirts of any patrol circuit, beyond the prying eyes of both New York's populace and her ever watchful vigilantes.  Despite this, Nelson’s stomach turns, the metallic taste of fear rising in the back of his throat with each mincing step, every crunch of grit and broken glass beneath his boots.  The symbol – the _swastika_ – on his chest is burning right through to the skin, bared for all to see, scarring him deeper than flesh, and the idea sends a thrill down his spine.

There is a muted sound, just on the edges of his perception, the softest footfall, subtle but as telling as a scream.  Somewhere on the east side of the complex.  Nelson drops down to crouch, scuttling crabwise into the shadow of some ancient piece of obsolete factory equipment, hiding in its ample shadow.  His breath is loud – incredibly loud – in his own ears, trapped inside the mask, fogging the black disks of glass that compose his world in shades of grey.  He wants, badly, to remove the cloying leather from his head, free his ears and his senses, but all he is allowed is an irritated rub, straining for the least hint to just exactly where—

Something clanks in the distance; the sound is hollow, perhaps an empty coke bottle against a trashcan?  He turns his head against the stiff material at his throat, reaching up absently to tug it away.  It's on the west side, now, by the great doors, long since unhinged, hanging awkwardly from their rusted bolts.  A distraction?  Or had the acoustics played tricks on his hearing?

Nelson slowly rises, trying to quell his own breath, mouth going dry.  Quiet as a cat, he shuffles towards the far wall, opposite the doors and their treacherous openness, the shrouded sky that looms over the city.  He uses the secondhand light from the windows – broken teeth and black eyes, chattering old men whispering amongst themselves in the breeze – and works his way along, pausing every other step to listen.

The knee hits him like a ton of bricks.

Nelson goes down hard, wind knocked out of him in a rush, and his torso is already twisting, elbow flying back to strike his assailant in the chest.  It's like hitting stone, so impossibly solid to be living.

There is a chuckle, deep and menacing as distant thunder, and a wide hand grabs the back of Nelson's head.  He has enough time to brace back before his forehead is slammed into the ground, nose crunching awkwardly against the mouthpiece.  He grits his teeth in a bloody snarl – lips cut on between the metal and his own incisors – and bucks back, hard.   He knows he doesn't have the raw power to remove his attacker completely, and is just being _allowed_ his freedom, but it still excites him when he gets that little distance, gets his blood flowing in all the right ways.

He rolls aside a half a second before the foot descends where he would have been: they know each other's reaction times well.  There will be no mistakes; the play has long been choreographed to the most minute of details.  Nelson kicks out with an unbalanced roundhouse, and catches the back of a knee.  Above him, there is a grunt, and a slight give; a stumble, not a fall, and Nelson might as well try to move mountains with his bare hands for all the good it does him.

Still, it's enough time for Nelson to spring to his feet, falling into a fighter's stance, knees bent and hands before him, squared with his shoulders.  He cocks his head – _come on, then_ – and bounces on his toes.

The first fist is deflected with ease, just a test, still packing force but much less than Nelson is used to.  The second is faster, aiming for his gut and he curves with it, lessening the impact and using his momentum to spin around, kicking with considerable strength into the exposed ribcage.  A hand – more akin to a bear's paw than any human limb – wraps around his ankle, dragging Nelson forward and off his balance.  Nelson flings out his arms to catch himself on air, and that is when the third strike connects, cracking against his jaw and sending him boneless to the floor.

Nelson rolls onto his belly, shoving his hands beneath him to lever himself up, and the toe of a boot slams into his flank, sending him rolling.  Nelson has a fast recovery, a way to shove all kinds of pain away, but he can't fight physics, and when that weight drops down on him, he stills, knowing it’s over now.

Blunt fingers hook under the mask, the first real sensation on Nelson’s sweaty skin and it electrifies him, terrifies him, and suddenly his thin shield is lifted away and he is Nelly again, panting and broken on the floor.  He gasps at the rush of air, coldness seeping down his collar and right to his bones, the sharp throb of a chipped tooth flaring up with it.

Rolf grabs him by his uniform, and Nelly flushes with shame as he watches what he can see of the man's eyes take in the symbol, the horrible image, like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.  Even beneath the heavy mask, Nelly can hear Rolf's breathing become labored, and he offers no resistance as he is towed upward, crushing his mouth to cloth and the teeth beneath.  Rolf is hard, so obviously hard against Nelly’s bruised thigh, and it's only this that lets him kiss back, let Rolf's fingers trace the edges of the swastika, more gently than he ever has been to Nelly's flesh.

Because that's what you do, for the people you love.  You give to them.  Give in to them.

"H.J.," Nelly says, muffled but intelligible, and is surprised by the gradual release of pressure, the hold on him becoming tender, fingers relaxing from their death grip.  The slits – all the windows to Rolf that Nelly will ever know – are sympathetic, and the brush of a thumb to his darkening cheek is a kindness that has no place here.

"Are you hurt?" Rolf rumbles, deep in his chest.

"No," Nelly says, reaching up to cling in a way he can't when they're not alone, when the others are near, and the truth of it pains him in every possible way. It is wrong, it is shameful, and it makes him harder than anything he's ever known.  His face contorts, and he rasps, "Why are you stopping?" tugging H.J.'s forearms anxiously.  This is not part of the game he has instigated; this interlude is not allowed.

Rolf grunts rather than speaks, fingers squeezing hard. "Tell me when to stop," he warns, and in his voice is an inexpressible concern, a sadness at the corners of his arousal.

Because Nelly never will, and this is why Rolf gives in.  Every time.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcomed.


End file.
